


Fire

by isa_belle



Series: Dream smp [3]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Conflict, Guilt, POV Outsider, War, no one is really mentioned by name, technically, this is weird to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28143648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isa_belle/pseuds/isa_belle
Summary: It eats them alive, you know. The conflict, the tragedy of it all.
Relationships: Cara | CaptainPuffy/Niki | Nihachu, Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit & Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Dream smp [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2068152
Comments: 15
Kudos: 60





	Fire

**Author's Note:**

> i am hyper-fixating on block men someone send help. this is sort of shitty nonsense that poured out of my brain but here you go i guess

It eats them alive, you know. The conflict, the tragedy of it all. They fight their petty little wars, and have their fickle little quarrels. They lose elections, they lose friends. They’re betrayed again and again. 

_You want to be a hero? Then die like one._

It was never meant to be

It was never meant to be 

_It was never meant to be._

It eats them alive.

They blame everyone they can think of. Scapegoat after scapegoat. They point and condemn and hate themselves all the same. Blood is shed as frequently as tears. Lives are lost and lost again. A vicious cycle, grating and grating at them til they’re all sand, crunching beneath feet. Bodies in the ground. 

Blame the man with the skulls on his walls and voices in his head. 

Blame the dictator who’s been in the ground longer than he’s been out of it. 

Blame the hunter with the invitations behind his back. 

Blame the man who blew it all to the ground to avoid consequence, who was consumed in his own righteous flame. 

Blame the boys who have fought so hard they’re not sure what a life without fighting is like. 

Point point point. Blame blame blame. They’re all as much at fault as they aren’t. That’s the delicate balance, the game they play, the man with the puppet strings, the man with the button and the bomb. Tiptoeing over lines with great care and plowing through people along the way. Morals get lost in the cloudy gray. A guilty conscious is a hard thing to forgive. Motivation is forgotten, consumed by the idea of completing a task. And desire? No one gets what they desire. Not really. The boy and his disks. The boy and his friend. The father and his sons. The nation and its peace. 

They’re not happy. And the ignorant ghost can hand out as much blue as he wants but they’re never gonna be. Satisfaction isn’t a factor in power. Caring and loving are not important to war, war is unforgiving. 

The girls and their flower shop want peace as much as the boy in the presidents chair who wants peace as much as poor Theseus and his father and brothers. But the man in the mask doesn’t want peace and the man in the mask gets what he wants. 

It’s a simple and complicated as that. 

_You fucked up._ Says the boy. And they have. And they are. And they  _will._

War is a messy, bloody thing. And it never truly ends. It stays monumented behind the eyes of children soldiers. Lamented over the graves of people who could have been good, who maybe were at some point. Frozen in the minds of fathers who killed their sons. Stuck to the skin of bloody, bloody hands. 

They’re all tired of fighting. But they’re addicted. It’s like a drug, chemicals pumping through their veins. What will they be without a cause, without swords and shields and bows. Without territories and factions and revolutions. Coexisting isn’t possible. That much is clear. War is a virus. Incurable, all you can do is keep stopping the symptoms. 

They’ll keep going, play their mind games and do their dances to avoid taking blame. They’ll manipulate and be manipulated and the guilt will burn and burn on. _It eats them alive, you know_. And one day, there will be nothing left to be eaten. 

The flames of passion burn bright, you see. Red and orange and yellow. Fire can be a truly lovely sight, until it burns your house down. 

**Author's Note:**

> >>you know what? fuck it. in light of the doomsday streams, im gonna say it! i popped off, my take is so fucking hot and good and i rule.<<
> 
> thank you for reading!! if you liked it, leave a comment, they always pick me up when im feeling down :) you can also check out the other stuff i’ve written. thank you!
> 
> Byee


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